POEMS 


CICELY  M.  WH1TAKER 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


POEMS 

By 
Cicely    M.   Whitaker 


Philadelphia: 

H.  W.  Fisher  &  Co. 
1903 


Copyright,  July,  1903 

By 
H.  W.  FISHER  &  CO. 


300  copies  privately  printed. 


TO  i.  c. 


not  thy  praise  is  naught, 
Or  naught  thy  sympathy, 
When  I  have  chased  the  thought  \ 
Which,  still  eluding  me, 

I  grasp  with  touch  o'er  bold, 

And  think  in  words  to  hold, 

Then  find  to  my  dismay 

Its  life  has  fled  away, 

And  but  the  corpse  I  bear 

In  garments  wrought  with  care, 

When  thus  to  thee  I  bring 

The  lifeless,  mangled  thing, 

And  lay  it  at  thy  feet, 

Thy  dear  acceptance  sweet, 

Gives  it  a  second  birth, 

Makes  it  a  thing  of  worth, 

Henceforth  it  lives  for  me, 

TTielife  it  gains  from  thee. 


904248 


A  MEDITATION. 
St.  Mark,  3:31. 

REY  shade  of  doubt  between  me  and  the 
V_J     Lord, 

Oh,  Mary,  can  it  be  thou  hast  forgot 
All  thy  great  joy?     Dost  thou  remember  not 
The  exulting  hymn  through  which  thy  praise 
was  poured? 

Canst  not  e'en  now  within  thy  mem'ry  hear, 
Through  all  the  tumult  of  this  noisy  world 
The  angel's  voice,   who  with  bright  pinions 

furled, 
Once  stood  beside  thee,  bidding  thee  not  fear  ? 

Yes  !    once  again,  had'st  thou  the  power  to 

see, 

Beside  thee  standing  is  that  angel  fair, 
Nor  altered  is  the  message  he  doth  bear, 
Though  strangely  altered  all  things  seem  to 

thee. 


Oh,  blessed  among  women  wast  thou  called, 
And  to  thy  care  the  child  divine  was  given  ; 
His  coming  ope'd  for  thee  the  gates  of  Heaven, 
How  canst  thou,  then,  by  sorrows  be  appalled? 

Or  was  the  promise  of  his  birth  so  great, 
That  viewed  beside  this  poor  reality, 
Some  fair  delusion  it  doth  seem  to  thee, 
Which  thy  pure  mind  while  musing  did  create  ? 

But  many  years  since  then  have  passed  thee  by, 
And  thou  hast  seen  life's  early  glory  fade, 
And  many  bright  hopes  in  their  grave  hast  laid, 
Since  He  upon  thy  knee  a  child  did  lie. 

Oh,  in  that  little  house  at  Nazareth, 

As  He  beside  thee  grew  through  childhood's 

days, 
Whilst  watching  all  His  sweet,  and  pleasant 

ways, 
Didst  thou   still   hear  the  visions  murmuring 

breath  ? 

But  when  He,  strong  and  self-reliant  grew, 
And  less  dependent  on  thy  tender  care, 
When  other  children  came  thy  love  to  share, 
Then  did  the  vision  grow  more  distant  too. 
3 


Till  as  thou  watched'st  Him  at  His  daily  toil, 
A  man  among  His  brethren  working  there, 
As  though  forgetful  of  the  glories  rare, 
That  round  His  birth  had  wove  their  wondrous 
coil, 

Thy  faith  grew  dim.  Oh,  Mary,  chide  me  not, 
If  more  than  strange,  it  seems  to  me  that  thou 
Art  seen  to  stand  among  the  doubters  now 
As   though  thou   hadst  that   wondrous  birth 
forgot. 

Oh,  Christ!  forgive  the  weary,  doubting  hour, 
When  vainly  stretching  out  my  hands  to  Thee, 
The  form  of  Mary  seemed  to  me  to  be, 
Of  one  denying  all  Thy  marvelous  power. 

Forgive,  if  in  impatience  and  in  pride, 
I  oft  have  said  :  Had  I  the  vision  seen, 
Though  all  the  world  had  striv'n  my  heart  to 

wean, 
I  still  had  worshipped  constant  by  Thy  side. 

If  I  had  heard  but  once  Thy  gracious  voice, 
Or  seen  the  least  of  all  Thy  wondrous  deeds, 
Henceforth  to  me  were  naught  the  wisest  creeds, 
To  follow  Thee  for  aye,  my  only  choice. 

4 


But  not  alone  to  thee,  Oh,  Mary,  mild, 

To  clothe  divinity  in  flesh  is  given, 

Each  thought  that  here  descends  to  us  from 

Heaven, 
Is  like  the  birth  of  some  strange  gracious  child. 

And  the  joy  we  feel  in  its  possession, 

A  promise  of  great  future  seems  to  be, 

Wide  kingdoms  conquered  by  that  child  we  see, 

And  for  his  work  all  meaner  tasks  we  shun. 

Oh,  Mary,  when  like  thee  with  eyes  grown  dim, 
With  mists  of  disappointment  and  with  tears, 
As  looking  backward  through  the  darkening  years, 
Our  hopes,  delusions  seem  but  to  have  been. 

May  we  remember  how  the  Christ-child  came, 
Though  promised  He  should  rule  o'er  Israel, 
Beneath  the  wrath  of  His  own  people  fell, 
Lived,    worked  and  died,  nor    seemed    that 
crown  to  gain. 

And  yet,  through  all  the  years  that  since  have 

flown, 

His  life  from  every  life  new  honor  gains, 
Now,   more  than  king,    He  in  His   kingdom 

reigns, 
And  all  His  words  and  deeds  have  brighter 

grown. 

5 


So,  let  us  hail  with  joy,  each  radiant  thought, 
Nor  be  dismayed  though  it  should  seem  to  be 
A  servant  bright,  to  dark  reality, 
Knowing  'twas  thus  that  highest  truth  was  taught. 


WOODLANDS,  1892. 


THEY  are  not  here  who  die  : 
Not  'neath  these  stones  they  lie: 
The  river  flowing  by, 

Escapes  their  ken. 

But  every  common  way  ; 
Where  they  but  once  did  stray 
Though  known  but  for  a  day, 
Will  welcome  them. 

Their  spirits  do  not  come, 
These  whispering  trees  among, 
The  birds  cease  not  their  song 
At  their  alarm. 

But  every  sight  and  sound, 
Once  to  their  memory  bound, 
Will  ever  more  be  found, 

Touched  by  their  charm. 

7 


Then,  wherefore,  do  we  lay 
These  flowers  here  to-day, 
Since  we  may  truly  say, 

They  are  not  here. 

And,  wherefore,  do  we  trace 
Their  name  in  carv6d  grace 
Above  their  chosen  place? 
They  are  not  here. 

'Tis  tribute  that  we  pay 
Unto  the  earth  to-day, 
For  life  we  take  away, 

And  have  of  her. 

Some  tribute  must  we  bring, 
Some  willing  offering, 
For  gifts  unfaltering, 

That  are  her  care. 

She  but  receives  again, 
That  which  we  do  not  claim, 
Earth  unto  earth  the  strain, 
The  spirit  hears. 

The  spirit  thus  set  free, 
Returns  with  us  to  be, 
Our  spirit's  company, 

Through  all  earth's  years. 
8 


PALM  SUNDAY. 

WE  cry  Hosanna  with  the  crowd, 
And  with  them  strew  with  palms  the  way  ; 
We  speak  our  praise  of  Thee  aloud  ; 
The  world  has  done  the  same  alway, 
But  in  the  silence  of  the  night, 
When  only  whisper  it  we  may  ; 
When  we  are  far  from  life  and  light, 
' '  Barabbas ' '  is  the  word  we  say. 

We  say  "  Barabbas,  "  but  we  mean 
To  keep  him  in  his  prison  cell ; 
We  say,   "  Barabbas,"  and  we  mean 
Only  to  treat  the  prisoner  well. 
We  may  forget  his  presence  soon, 
Or  he  may  perish  ;  who  can  tell  ? 
We  grant  him  but  this  little  boon, 
At  peace  within  our  hearts  to  dwell. 

9 


But  once  upon  that  fatal  morn, 
Thou  didst  thy  wonted  power  display, 
And  by  thy  silent  mandate  borne, 
He  came  into  the  light  of  day. 
No  whisper  now  his  name  conceals, 
No  subtle  arguments  delay, 
Its  inner  thought  the  world  reveals, 
"  Barabbas"  is  its  choice  alway. 

And  so,  disguise  it  as  we  will, 
With  self-deceiving  sophistry, 
That  choice  must  bear  one  impress  still, 
That  separates  the  soul  from  Thee. 
The  object  of  the  heart's  desire, 
When  Thee,  alone,  it  may  not  be, 
Need  to  no  other  name  aspire, 
No  other  choice  the  soul  may  see. 


10 


6£  Luke,  5:4. 

NOT  in  the  shallow  waters  of  life's  sea, 
Though  there  in  darkness  thou  may'st 

safely  go  ; 

But  where  life's  waters  do  most  deeply  flow, 
Launch  forth  thy  bark,  there  let  thy  labors  be, 
There  from  the  trammels  of  earth's  custom  free, 
Lighted  by  strength  of  purpose,  as  by  day, 
Let  not  men's  wonder,  nor  their  scorn  dismay, 
For  as  thy  faith,  so  thy  reward  shall  be. 
Nor  shalt  thou  grieve,  though  others  seem  to 

find 

In  sheltered  ways,  and  in  security, 
All  thou  dost  seek  in  danger's  company  ; 
But  leaving  safety,  and  the  night  behind, 
Welcome  the  danger  unto  thee  assigned, 
Since  with  it  cometh  light  and  liberty. 


XI 


Hebrews^  13:13. 

JERUSALEM,  JERUSALEM  thy  light, 
Since  He  went  forth  who  should  have 
been  thy  King, 

Bearing  His  Cross,  and  suffering  from  thy  sin, 
Is  quenched  now  in  ignominious  night, 
And  Him  thou  could' st  or  would' st  not  judge 

aright, 

But  put  to  death  in  midst  of  bitter  shame, 
Is  now  the  world's  praise  given,  thou  its  blame. 
But  though  the  world  confesses  now  His  might, 
And  on  His  altar  many  a  tribute  lays, 
It  is  the  self-same  world  that  long  ago, 
To  His  humility  was  proved  a  foe  ; 
And  not  to  this  e'en  now  it  honor  pays, 
But  they  who  seek  Him  truly  in  these  days, 
Forth  to  Him  still  without  the  gate  must  go. 


SUGGESTED   BY  AN   ESSAY  OF  FREDERIC 
HARRISON'S. 

I  HELD  a  much-worn  volume  in  my  hand, 
And  pondering  o'er  its  words,  still  strove 

to  find 

Some  key  into  the  mystery  behind 
This  present  and  material  life,  and  scanned 
With  Pity  at  my  side,  the  region  planned 
For  those  who  die  in  sin,  and  weeping  sore 
We  quenched  the  flames  of  Hell  forever  more, 
And  in  the  Book  all  words  for  Hell  were  banned. 
Then  we  rejoiced,  and  wiped  away  our  tears, 
But  Reason  pushing  wide  the  half-closed  door, 
Entered  so  softly  we  scarce  knew  her  there, 
Until  she,  calmly  smiling  at  our  fears, 
Took  up  the  book,  and  by  her  magic  rare, 
All  words  which  promised  Heaven  away  she 

bore. 


RUSSIA. 

LO  !  from  the  land  whose  dark  dominion  lies 
Like  a  vast  shadow  of  the  Blast  unfurled 
Upon  the  borders  of  the  western  world, — 
That  land  of  gloom,  whose  gift  of  light  supplies 
But  evidence  that  it  all  light  defies. 
By  its  relentless  rulers  ever  hurled 
In  deeper  woe,  that  round  its  borders  curled 
Its  battlements  may  in  more  splendor  rise. 
O'er  wasted  fields  and  ruined  hamlets  lone 
We  hear  the  clang  of  thy  great  armory. 
But  like  to  her  whose  price  of  perjury 
Proved  but  the  weight  that  crushed  her  lifeless 

form, 

Thou  soon  shall  find,  when  fallen  ambition's  doom, 
Thou  dost  but  guard  the  entrance  to  a  tomb. 


WELL  did  he  say  who  bade  us  BOW  the 
seed 

Nor  stand  in  doubt  which  were  the  wiser  time, 
Nor  think  to  grasp  the  harvest  which  is  thine, 
To  give  or  to  withhold.     Whate'er  the  seed 
The  fruit  it  bears  is  still  by  Thee  decreed. 
I  planted  joy  and  thought  the  harvest  mine 
Of  brightest  flowers  whereon  the  sun  should 

shine 

And  make  my  earth  a  Paradise  indeed. 
The  planting  was  the  only  joy  I  found, 
I  watered  with  my  tears  the  arid  ground, 
And  thought  the  desolation  would  remain 
As  if  on  deserts  fell  a  thankless  rain. 
And  lo  !  untended  by  a  thought  or  care 
Fair  fields  and  sheltering  woodlands  blossom  there. 


HOW  shall  I  keep  my  life  above  the  tide 
Of  frivolous  things  that  pass  me  day  by 
day? 

How  can  I  look  upon  my  life  and  say 
These  things  I  chose,  these  others  are  denied, 
Who  from  the  realm  where  duty  doth  preside 
With  simple  law,  hath  deemed  it  well  to  stray 
Into  that  labyrinth,  where  with  dismay 
I  find  I  am  myself  my  only  guide. 
Fain  would  I  feel  once  more  Thy  sheltering  fold 
Around  my  life,  Alas  !  the  fatal  key, 
Once  taken  from  its  resting  place  with  Thee, 
Must  in  his  hands  remain,  who  overbold, 
Has  dared  to  unlock  the  closed  door 
That  he  may  lock  upon  himself  no  more. 


16 


PRAISE  AND  BLAME. 

1T)RAISE  is  a  goddess  who  with  skillful  hand 
1     Draws  a  fair  veil  across  reality, 
And  bids  us  through  its  glittering  meshes  see 
The  house  we  dreamed  of  fully  builded  stand. 
Bids  us  forget  the  care  with  which  we  planned 
Its  fair  proportions,  and  the  many  hours 
We  labored,  but  scarce  hoped  to  call  it  ours, 
Its  beauty  making  fairer  all  the  land. 
Blame  is  a  taskmaster  who  with  rude  breath 
Blows  far  away  the  glittering  veil  of  Praise, 
While  on  our  work  destroying  hands  he  lays, 
Dooming  our  lofty  aims  to  instant  death, 
Bidding  us  lay  more  true  the  stones  beneath, — 
Under  his  rule  the  work  unfinished  stays. 


WITH  princely  gifts  I  saw  them  heap  thy 
shrine, 

And  heard  thy  praise  from  every  side  resound, 
And  saw  thy  life  with  many  honors  crowned 
And  much  I  wished  the  power  to  give  were  mine. 
As  I  with  empty  hands,  a  weary  time, 
Lingered  in  hope  that  thou  would'  st  look  and 

see 

That  I  with  tears  did  mourn  my  poverty, 
And  that  among  thy  gifts,   they  too,   might 

shine. 

But  as  I  watched  thee  from  my  distant  place 
Outside  the  circle  of  the  glittering  crowd, 
I  thought  I  saw  their  praises  cause  a  cloud 
Of  weariness  to  sadden  thy  sweet  face, 
So  on  thy  memory  though  I  left  no  trace, 
I  can  rejoice  I  darkened  not  the  cloud. 


18 


NOW  thou  art  gone,  and  we  no  longer  share 
The  sunset  clouds,  the  fair  or  gloomy 
day, 
The  budding  spring,  nor  autumn's  lengthened 

stay, 
Clothing  with  softest  light  the  brown  woods 

bare, 

Until  we  almost  think  they  are  more  fair 
Than  when  in  summer's  garment  green  and 

gay- 

Since  we  no  longer  share  these  things,  I  say, 
Let  us  for  those  that  change  not  have  more 

care, 

Let  us  arise  above  the  season's  range. 
And   hold    communion    where    there    is    no 

change. 
The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,    may  still  be 

ours — 

And  the  blue  sky  that  ever  o'er  us  towers, 
So  though  life's  destinies  on  earth  divide 
Through  Heaven  our  thoughts   may  wander 

side  by  side. 


TO  I.  C. 

LONG  have  I  wished  mine  were  the  power  to 
bind 

To  words  full  worthily  thy  character  ; 
To  catch  thy  ever-changing  moods,  and  snare 
The  subtle  charm  I  seem  to  lose  and  find, 
And  lose  again,  before  my  baffled  mind 
Has  given  it  name  or  can  its  form  declare. 
I  know  no  words  that  thy  full  impress  bear, 
Thou  own'st  some  quality  yet  undefined, 
'Tis  said  that  we  grasp  but  degrees  of  things  : 
That  on  each  side  the  rainbow-colors  lie, 
We  cannot  paint  by  our  imaginings, 
We  need  some  other  sense  to  name  them  by. 
How  can  I  draw  a  just  analogy  ? 
Some  sense  is  wanting  rightly  to  name  thee. 


TO  I.  C. 

IN  the  circle  of  a  bubble, 
All  the  world  that  I  can  see, 
Lies  reflected,  nothing  wanting, 
In  its  perfect  spherity. 

Multiply  the  bubble  over 
Till  the  sky  can  hold  no  more, 
And  the  picture  is  the  picture, 
Plus  the  bubbles,  nothing  more. 

So  contain  thy  smiles  and  praises 
All  the  world  could  give  to  me, 
I  behold  them  undistracted 
By  mere  multiplicity. 


21 


WHEN  by   the  questionings  of  life  dis 
tressed 

Keep  this  one  truth  within  thy  soul  confessed,— 
So  long  as  thou  canst  feel,  or  pain,  or  bliss, 
Thou  hast  thyself  the  power  to  ban  or  bless. 


THOUGH  oft  my  heart  rebelled  'gainst  thy 
control, 

Thou  hast  had  patience  with  my  wayward  soul, 
And  canceling  all  the  steps  I  should  have  taken, 
Hast  set  before  me  a  yet  higher  goal. 


22 


A  FRAGMENT. 


May  not  the  three  Temptations  have  been  Christ's  desire  to 
give  to  the  world  three  gifts  :  The  gift  of  a  perfect  physical  life, 
of  a  perfect  physical  organization,  and  a  revelation  which  could 
not  be  doubted  1—(Read  St.  Luke,  iv,  1-14.) 


SO  Thou  didst  leave  us,  nor   did'st  satisfy 
The  three  great  needs  that  vex  the  human 

soul, 

And  mystery  descends,  and  shuts  us  in 
Closely  as  ever,  save  that  Thou  hast  sent 
An  angel  to  us,  whispering  words  like  these, — 
"  What  seek  ye  here?     Lo,  He  has  gone  before." 
My  soul  against  the  darkness  did  rebel, 
Then,  from  the  distance  faintly,  then  more  clear, 
Hope,  like  a  star,  did  through  the  night  appear. 
I  watched  it  as  it  brighter  grew, 
And  as  its  glorious  rays  about  me  fell, 
My  soul  in  ecstacy  to  meet  it  flew, 
But  sank  again  beneath  the  touch  of  dread, 
The  fear  of  loss,  a  darkly  brooding  care 
That  mingled  with  the  joy  I  scarce  could  bear. 
Then  covering  my  face  to  hide  the  light, 
Fearing  its  glory,  fearing,  too,  the  night 
Scarce  knowing  I,  of  which  the  most  afraid, 
Humbly  my  spirit  for  submission  prayed. 


LIFE  with  its  narrow  walls  shuts  in 
The  soul  that  would  be  free, 
Its  hopes  are  naught  but  restlessness, 
Its  striving  brings  but  weariness — 
At  peace  it  cannot  be. 

So  when  I've  grown  too  tired  to  strive, 

Too  restless  to  be  still, 

Forth  into  death  my  soul  shall  steal 

Its  boundless  liberty  to  feel, 

Its  perfect  peace  drink  in. 


AS  when  by  some  mighty  upheaval 
The  streams  that  flow  into  the  sea 
Taste  at  their  source  the  salt  ocean, 
And  learn  thus  their  infinity. 

So  we  when  our  passions  o'erwhelm  us, 
And  sorrow  and  pain  seem  to  bear 
No  proportion  to  earth's  brief  existence 
Find  proof  of  eternity  there. 


LO  !    I   have  looked  on  death  and  felt  no 
fear, 

Naught  but  the  longing  that  a  soul  might  feel 
Who  from  his  bark  becalmed  in  harbor  drear 
See'th  a  neighboring  craft's  white  sail  slow  fill 
With  a  fair  breeze,  that  bears  her  ever  on, 
To  where  she  sinks  beneath  the  horizon's  rim. 


THEY  came  and  said   the  child  was 
dead, 

They  spoke  the  words  with  fear, 
For  all  night  long  the  king  had  lain 
And  comfort  would  not  hear. 

But  now  he  rose  and  stood  erect 
Calmly  his  grief  to  bear, 
For  he  who  could  not  comfort  brook, 
Was  strengthened  by  despair. 


I  WILL  not  say  I  grieve  for  thee, 
Alone  I  seem  to  stand 
Upon  some  barren  point  in  space, 
Where  far  and  wide  on  every  hand, 
No  pathway  can  I  trace. 

Rayless  and  soundless  is  the  air, 
It  holds  the  silence  of  despair. 
As  lifeless  seems  my  soul  to  be, 
And  in  my  desolation  I  become 
Part  of  the  void  I  seem  to  gaze  upon. 


THERE'S  often  more  said  in  word 
Than  books  could  ever  hold, 
There's  often  more  said  in  a  glance 
Than  words  have  ever  told. 

When  memory  no  longer  reaps 

The  fruits  of  labors  sown, 

Back  through  the  years  undimmed,  unchanged 

Shall  come  a  look,  a  tone. 


( t  JV  /I  Y  kingdom  is  not  of  this  world  !' ' 
I  V 1     So  said  the  Christ  and  all  the  Jews 

reviled 

Save  some  few  souls  whose  hidden  worth 
He  saw,  and  to  Himself  beguiled. 

And  Christians  now  make  efforts  vain 

To  cause  that  kingdom  on  this  earth  to  thrive, 

And  marvel  when  their  efforts  fail, 

That  it  cannot  be  kept  alive. 

But  Christ  is  now  what  He  was  then, 

He  grieves  not  when  He  sees  their  banners 

furled. 

But  touching  some  few  souls  He  says  : 
"  My  kingdom  is  not  of  this  world." 


Why  is  it  that  the  human  soul 
Through  all  its  misery 
Forevermore  looks  up  to  God 
Seeming  His  face  to  see? 

Why  is  it  on  the  deepest  grief 
The  soul  of  man  can  feel 
It  yet  unhesitatingly, 
Places  love's  holy  seal? 

It  is  not  that  it  hopeth  thus 

It  may  avert  the  blow, 

For  oft  it  feels  God's  presence  most 

When  it  least  hope  doth  know. 

As  one  alone  upon  a  wreck 
The  helpless  waves  between, 
Might  see  upon  the  distant  shore 
A  friendly  beacon  gleam. 

And  by  the  brightness  of  that  ray 
A  brother  standing  see 
Stretching  his  hands  across  the  night 
In  helpless  sympathy. 


He  could  forget  his  loneliness 

In  light  and  love  thus  shed, 

And  though  no  other  help  came  near 

He  would  be  comforted. 

So  God  held  back  by  nature's  laws, 
Across  the  awful  space, 
Looks  on  the  suffering  human  soul 
With  pity  on  His  face. 

And  by  some  kindly  given  power 
That  pity  is  descried, 
And  though  no  other  help  be  given 
The  soul  is  satisfied. 


LINES  WRITTEN  AFTER 
READING  "  POEMS"  BY  STEPHEN  PHILLIPS. 

YES,  it  is  well  that  we  are  half  asleep, 
The  agony  of  life  else  who  could  bear, 
For  we  are  drugged  by  pain  while  tasting  it, 
And  sleep  away  the  lessons  of  despair. 

And  so,  I  look  on  life  with  half -closed  eyes, 
And  life  with  half-closed  eyes  looks  back  on  me, 
And  only  for  a  moment  sudden  roused, 
Our  gaze  is  strained  in  helpless  sympathy. 

Oh,  Friend,  upon  the  pages  of  whose  book 
The  impress  of  this  anguish  deep  is  seen, 
Thou,  too,  must  pass  across  these  heights  of  woe, 
And  tread  the  unimpassioned  flats  between. 

And  some  day  thou  wilt  turn  these  leaves  of  thine 
And  read  the  strange,  familiar  words  once  more, 
And  seek  the  spirit  that  inspired  thy  line, 
But  thou  wilt  not  its  perfect  pain  restore. 
33 


Then  wilt  thou  chafe  at  this  unwished  calm, 
Yet  grieve  not,  nor  desire  what  cannot  be, 
Thy  work  is  done,  and  thou  canst  not  return, 
Lo !  others  reach  thy  heights,  and  by  thee  see. 


34 


THOU  art  the  moon  in  Thy  fair  glory  shining, 
And  we  the  drops  of  water  in  the  sea. 
That  silver  pathway  now  Thy  light  enshrining, 
Are  lives  wherein  Thine  image  Thou  may'st  see. 

But,  oh  !  deep  down  beyond  the  farthest  reach 
ing 

Of  Thy  bright  arrows,  piercing  though  they 
are, 

Are  lives  that  still  with  earnestness  unceasing, 

Follow  Thy  guiding  influence  from  afar. 

They  follow  Thee  in  darkness  overpowering  ; 
They  wander  to  and  fro,  they  know  not  why, 
Through  caves  unlit,  where  Echo  still  is  sound 
ing 
To  their  vain  question,  her  as  vain  reply. 

Their  voice  is  heard  beneath  the  roar  of  ocean, 
It  mars  the  joyous  ripple  on  the  beach, 
And  not  its  breathless  calm,  nor  wild  commo 
tion, 

Dispels  the  mournful  cadence  of  their  speech. 
35 


They  ask  for  light  who  never  knew  it  present, 
They  seek  for  joy  who  never  felt  its  power, 
And  unto  Thee  unnamed  with  cry  incessant, 
They  plead  for  satisfaction,  hour  by  hour. 

©h,  Infinite  in  might  they  may  not  question, 
Be  infinite  in  mercy  and  in  love, 
And  from  the  darkness  of  the  depths  of  ocean, 
Draw  them  at  last  into  Thy  light  above. 


I  CANNOT  feel  my  sorrows  near  to-night, 
They  seem  to  float  afar  like  yonder  clouds, 
Rose-tinted  in  the  sunset's  golden  light. 

So  by  the  touch  of  some  mysterious  power, 
All  my  dark  thoughts  are  changed  to  memories, 
Veiled  in  sweet  peace  like  clouds  at  sunset  hour. 

I  know  that  from  the  west  the  light  must  fade, 
And  leave  the  clouds  piled  dark  and  ominous: 
Till  they  by  night  invisible  are  made. 

So,  too,  I  know  that  of  this  joy  bereft, 

My  soul  once  more  must  feel  the  presence  near, 

Of  dark,  sad  thoughts,  like  clouds  by  sunset  left. 

Oh  !  much  I  wish  now  might  I  die  the  while 
Life  has  put  off  her  dark  forbidding  look, 
And  wears  for  me  her  sweetest,  brightest  smile. 


37 


AS  darkest  midnight  is  revealed 
By  stars  that  brightest  glow, 
So  to  the  world  by  Joy  revealed 
Life's  darkest  moments  show. 

'Tis  Joy  that  in  her  noon-day  hour 
Gives  us  Grief's  form  to  see, 
And  by  her,  hands  and  tongue, 
To  paint  his  mastery. 

For  who  with  hands  benumbed  by  pain 
The  painter's  brush  can  hold, 
Or  who  when  sobs  scarce  utterance  gain 
His  grief  in  words  has  told. 

Nay,  Joy  it  is,  that  holds  the  light 
By  which  Griefs  form  we  see, 
But  Grief  himself  is  darkest  night, 
Sightless  and  speechless  he. 


F^ERHAPS  when  I  have  thrown  away 
JT       This  heavy  garment  of  the  flesh, 
My  spirit  light  shall  rise  some  day 
Into  the  regions  of  the  blest. 
There  will  I  wait  the  face  to  see, 
That  shall  make  heaven,  heaven  to  me. 

A  thousand  thousand  years  I'd  stand, 
Nor  deem  the  time  thus  waiting  long, 
That  I  might  see  Thee  walk  the  strand 
The  crowding  angel  hosts  among. 
Then  would  I  kneel  and  kiss  the  sod, 
Which  more  than  angel  feet  have  trod. 


39 


DEATH  IN  A  HOSPITAL. 

THEY  closed  his  eyes  and  wrapped  him  round 
In  the  coarse  sheet,  and  went  their  way, 
And  thought  no  more  upon  him  there 
As  in  the  silent  morgue  he  lay. 

The  mourners  who  for  charity 
To  that  else  riteless  burial  came, 
Performed  the  humble  obsequies, 
But  scarcely  thought  to  ask  his  name. 

No  tears  were  shed,  and  no  one  felt 

A  blank  into  his  life  had  come, 

Nor  through  the  years  that  since  have  fled 

Has  told  of  aught  that  he  had  done. 

But  angel  hosts  fell  back  that  day 
As  through  the  courts  of  heaven  he  trod, 
And  bending  low  before  the  throne, 
A  crystal  soul  gave  back  to  God. 


40 


"  The  Ages  circling  round,  shall  never  give  to  this  creature 
shape  again." — CARLYLK. 

OUT  of  the  dust  the  flowers  grow, 
Out  of  our  earth-born  elements, 
High  aspirations  rise  and  glow. 

Into  the  dust  the  seeds  are  blown  ; 

The  flowers  die,  nor  live  again, 

New  flowers  are  they  to  rise  and  bloom. 

Out  of  old  thoughts  new  deeds  are  born — 
Deeds  that  keep  fresh  this  dusty  world  : — 
The  end  of  life  we  will  not  mourn. 

We  are  but  dust,  to  dust  return ; 
Rude  shapes  of  clay  to  feed  awhile 
The  light  divine,  then  let  it  burn. 

And  be  content  it  shall  remain 
Though  all  consumed,  this  mortal  form 
Shall  never  take  this  shape  again. 


TO  THE  CHURCH  OF  ST. 


IN  seven  weeks  my  feet  shall  tread 
Thy  charmed  ways  once  more, 
In  seven  weeks,  how  quickly  said, 
How  slow  to  travel  o'er! 

I  know  the  leaves  will  fallen  be 
From  thy  loved  vine  and  trees, 
But  winter  cannot  take  from  thee, 
The  charm  that  fancy  sees. 

I  know  that  cold  will  be  the  air, 
That  will  about  thee  blow, 
But  I  shall  find  thee  still  as  fair, 
Beneath  the  winter's  snow. 

As  when  I  left  thee  summer-clad, 
In  thy  rich  robe  of  shade, 
As  when  I  knew  that  Beauty  had 
Thee  in  her  best  arrayed. 
4* 


What  is  the  bond  thou  still  dost  keep 
Between  thyself  and  me  ! 
No  outward  change  can  touch  that  deep 
Long-rooted  sympathy. 

For  like  the  vine  that  wreathes  thee  still, 
Though  robbed  of  Beauty's  dower, 
And  feels  not  at  its  roots  the  chill 
That  o'  er  its  leaves  have  power. 

My  heart  that  once  in  gladness  grew 
To  know  and  love  thee  well, 
Still  turns  to  thee  with  love  as  true, 
Though  sorrow  joy  dispel. 

Though  sorrow  joy  dispel,  my  heart, 
Uplifted  by  thy  power, 
Shall  like  the  vine  whose  strength  thou  art, 
Await  the  brighter  hour. 


43 


THE  PHOEBE  BIRD. 

THY  plaintive  call,  oh  Phoebe  bird, 
Now  once  again,  I  hear, 
Alluring  as  the  spring's  return, 
It  greets  my  listening  ear. 

I  sought  thee  once  in  early  spring, 

The  leafless  trees  among, 
And  followed  long,  unweariedly, 

Thy  sweet,  elusive  song. 

I  thought  to  find  some  stranger  bird, 
In  glistening  wing  perched  high, 

Some  rare  and  soon-flown  visitor, 
To  match  that  distant  cry. 

I  knew  not  then  the  little  bird, 
That  builds  beneath  our  eaves, 

Familiar  as  the  oriole, 
That  gleams  amid  the  leaves. 
44 


As  when  a  child,  by  rhythmic  words 
Whose  meaning  still  escaped, 

My  mind  allured  and  following, 
Some  fairy  image  shaped. 

Which  better  knowledge  has  transformed 

To  a  familiar  thing, 
To  which  through  all  the  passing  years 

That  first  strange  charm  doth  cling, 

So,  tho'  I  know  thee  now  to  be 

A  little  bird  in  grey, 
The  first  charm  of  thy  plaintive  note 

Has  never  passed  away. 


45 


THE  EVENING  PRIMROSE. 

T~^  LOWER  that  opens  when  the  sun 
1        Has  left  the  earth  to  twilight  grey, 
Still  gleaming  like  the  stars  above, 
The  evening  primrose  lights  the  way. 

Dark  the  hedge  where  undiscerned 
The  sun's  companions  hidden  lie, 
While  thy  bright  petals  pierce  the  gloom, 
As  stars  the  sun-forsaken  sky. 


THOU  wert  so  young,  so  young  and  fair, 
Thus  suddenly  to  pass  beyond  our  ken, 
Into  the  shadow  of  that  mystery, 
For  aye  unlightened  by  the  minds  of  men. 

And  I,  who  knew  thee  not  enough  for  grief, 
At  sudden  thought  of  thee  am  made  to  feel 
As  might  one  who  through  sunny  meadows  comes 
All  unexpected  on  a  dark  ravine. 


47 


WHY  honor  ye  the  poet  thus  ? 
The  gift  he  gives  is  not  his  own  ; 
Worthless  the  word  bespeaks  to  us 
Unless  we  hear  the  undertone 
Of  the  one  voice  that  speaks  to  all, 
That  voice  to  him  is  power  alone. 

Upon  the  meanest  flower  that  grows, 
The  jewel  of  the  dew  will  form, 
And  pictured  in  its  sphere  repose 
The  glories  of  the  early  morn 
The  farthest  stars  that  pierce  the  night 
May  there  reflected  seem  new  born. 

And  ye  who  hear  the  words  of  light 

And  listen  to  the  song  he  sings, 

Keep  ye  your  hearts  attuned  aright, 

Ye,  too,  shall  rise  on  thought's  strong  wings, 

And  visions  of  more  glory  see 

Than  any  word  of  Poet  brings. 

Who  climb  the  steep  with  weary  feet 
May  leave  their  print  behind, 
But  they  who  rise  on  pinions  fleet 
Tread  nothing  but  the  wind. 
Would  ye  your  spirits  thus  set  free 
Be  careless  of  the  words  that  bind  ? 


THY  coming,  Love,  was  like  the  morn, 
Whose  brilliance  born  of  coming  storm 
But  makes  the  sailor  fear. 
And  that  delight  I  had  in  thee 
Was  but  an  earnest  prophecy 
Of  days  most  dark  and  drear. 

Thy  going,  Love,  was  like  the  shock 
Of  vessel  cast  upon  a  rock, 
Mid  waters  wild  and  wide, 
Whose  terrors  bear  the  soul  away 
Beyond  the  hope  of  coming  day 
And  coming  helpers  hide. 

As  sailors  welcome  back  the  morn 

Whose  brightness  is  of  greyness  born, 

So  I  my  second  day, 

Whose  strange  unlooked-for  peace  doth  seem. 

The  coming  of  a  white  sail  seen 

Through  clouds  that  break  away. 


49 


ON   A  PROMISE  TO  READ    "ENDYMION' 
TO  A  FRIEND. 

¥   HAVE  read  "  Endymion  :" 
1      Underneath  the  oak  tree's  shade, 
In  my  hammock  in  the  glade, 
There  from  morn  till  set  of  sun, 
I  have  read  "  Endymion." 

As  I  read  ' '  Endymion, ' ' 
Lost  at  first  in  fancy's  maze, 
Knowing  naught  of  poet's  ways, 
Smiled  I  as  the  tale  went  on, 
O'er  thy  page,   "  Endymion." 

Still,  I  read  "  Endymion," 
Till  the  mystery  it  holds 
Slowly  o'er  my  spirit  folds. 
And  the  smile  is  quelled  and  gone, 
By  thy  power,  "  Endymion." 

Thou  would' st  hear  "  Endymion?" 
Nay,  the  promise  I  recall, 
To  that  great  confessional 
There  must  enter  only  one, — 
Read  thyself  "  Endymion  !" 


THE  YELLOW  DAISY  OF  SANTA  FE. 

BECAUSE  you  raise  your  yellow  heads, 
And  glisten  in  the  sun, 
My  foot  avoids  you  where  it  treads, 
And  walks  the  grass  upon. 

So  life,  in  her  too  partial  way, 
Smiles  on  the  rich  and  glad, 
But  lays  the  burden  of  the  day, 
Upon  the  poor  and  sad. 


THE  BLUE  BIRD  OF  SANTA  FE. 

THIS  bird  that  flies  so  near  the  ground, 
Does  heaven's  own  colors  wear  : 
The  purple  zenith's  deepest  hue, 
The  middle  distance's  calm  blue, 
And  the  pale  horizon  fair. 

Who  will  not  look  above,  may  see 

Upon  his  plumage,  each  degree 

Of  light  that  wraps  the  sphere. 

But  I,  by  sudden  beauty  startled, 

Sought  the  source  whence  he  was  mantled, 

And  like  Plato,  I  descried, 

The  Archetype  his  grace  supplied. 


THE  SAINT. 

HER  spirit  left  this  lower  earth, 
And  dwelt  within  a  star  ; 
But  from  the  place  to  which  it  rose 
It  watched  her  from  afar. 

It  shone  upon  her  hands  and  feet, 
It  glistened  in  her  hair, 
Its  light  reflected  from  her  eyes, 
Made  life's  dark  ways  more  fair. 

And  so  she  walked  a  form  of  earth, 
In  fire  of  heaven  arrayed, 
And  they  who  watched  her,  felt  that  here 
Below  a  spirit  strayed. 


53 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  DEJECTION  ON  THE 
HILLS  OF  SANTA  FE'. 


ETWEEN  two  tiny  cedar  trees 
That  grace  a  hillside  rough  and  bare, 
And  stir  in  music  to  the  breeze, 
I  sit  their  solitude  to  share. 

For  miles  and  miles  before  me  lie 
The  gently  rising  green-clad  hills, 
Till  wrapped  in  snow  against  the  sky, 
Their  loftiest  rank  the  distance  fills. 

No  sign  of  life,  save  Nature's  own, 
Touches  the  scene  on  which  I  gaze, 
And  I  with  Nature  am  alone, 
Sole  guest  of  her  untrodden  ways. 

The  town  behind  me  hidden  lies 
By  the  low  hill  on  which  I  sit, 
But  sounds  that  from  its  life  arise. 
By  distance  softened  tell  of  it 

Adown  upon  the  beaten  road 
I  hear  the  horsemen  come  and  go, 
But  naught  but  sounds  reach  my  abode, 
Shut  in  by  hills  from  sights  below. 
54 


Hidden  among  the  encircling  hills, 
But  to  familiar  things  so  near, 
No  sense  of  desolation  fills 
The  mind  with  loneliness  or  fear. 

And  well  it  suits  me  in  this  mood. 
Who  find  in  earth  but  care  and  strife, 
To  seek  within  this  solitude 
The  loss  of  self,  in  Nature's  life. 

Till  from  foreboding  thoughts  set  free, 
My  heart  at  length  finds  peace  with  her, 
And  loses  in  her  harmony 
The  discord  of  its  own  despair. 

So  simply  here  has  Nature  wrought 
The  cure  that  lures  the  mind  from  care, 
I  sometimes  doubt  the  virtue  brought, 
Can  have  such  efficacy  rare. 

Until  at  night  on  sleepless  eyes, 

And  heart  and  brain  with  care  o'er  fraught, 

The  visions  of  the  hills  arise, 

And  once  again  life's  ills  are  naught. 

And  once  again  the  sounds  of  earth 
By  distance  softened,  soothe  and  cheer, 
And  once  again  life's  better  worth 
Has  whispered  peace  and  banished  fear. 

55 


And  when  the  skies  are  overcast, 
And  storm  and  cloud  the  heaven  fills, 
I  dream  of  days  when  storms  are  past, 
And  I  once  more  am  in  the  hills. 


AS  shines  the  mica  on  the  dusty  road, 
Its  ray  of  light  reflected  to  the  sun, 
Which  fearless  doth  the  countless  miles  outrun, 
To  lose  itself  within  its  first  abode. 

So  doubt  not  thou  communion  to  attain, 
With  the  great  Soul  that  fills  infinity. 
Who  sending  mid  earth's  life  His  light  to  thee, 
Doth  welcome  to  Himself  that  light  again. 


57 


I  SAW  the  hills  and  skies  reflected 
In  the  clear  waters  of  the  silent  lake ; 
So  still  it  was,  the  image  was  perfected; 
And  for  itself  did  a  new  beauty  make, 
So  may  Thy  will  within  my  heart  reflected, 
From  its  submission  a  new  beauty  take. 


HERE  is  a  flower,  a  moment  shone 
The  sun  above  its  head, 
And  lo,  its  petals  are  disclosed, 
In  all  their  beauty  spread. 

So  slight  a  thing,  a  minute's  birth, 
Is  this  all  thou  canst  bring  ? 
Ah  !  friend,  the  root  from  which  it  grew 
Doth  at  earth's  centre  spring. 


59 


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3515 


Poems 


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U  CFR  2  ni 


PS 

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III!  II II  Illll 
"A"  001  247956    4 


